She awoke to her television casting gray pictures on the wall of her small bedroom. Before turning it off and rolling over, she sat up in her bed and glanced out of the window.
An overhead light was on in the apartment across a deep alley and a floor down from hers. She smiled. Then she tugged her warm blanket up to her chin and snuggled in.
The light she looked for was in a room of a tall apartment building. No other light in the hundreds of lit windows in view mattered to her. She dreamed best and most vividly only when that one light was on.
This single light left a brightness on her imagination and a deeper and more satisfying warmth than any heated blanket. The light meant good things could be happening. It made her fantasize and radiate, even in her sleepiness.
To her, the apartment seemed within an arm’s reach, but truly she was miles away from it.
Rising to her elbow, she looked out of the window again. The overhead light was off. Instead, there was the familiar flickering of the television screen. She felt a jolt of hope in her chest. What was on TV to watch at this hour? Maybe the TV was only background noise for something else. It could actually be going on.
Enamored, she visualized it happening, even though at this hour there was hardly a chance of joining in.
She knew what had happened in that room in the past. She had witnessed it. And it might be happening again—by the slightest chance of a chance, if there was a greater power, fingers crossed. She could only wish though.
The flittering light had morphed into a steady soft blue gleam in the apartment. It now was very likely happening in that bedroom. A bolt of erotic energy zapped her heart, upping its pulsations. The energy rose to joyfully constrict her throat.
Visions began to pass through her mind.
Him, with a phone in one hand, thumbing through web videos, slowly stroking himself under the bed sheets with the other hand, making it grow. His mouth mumbling commands to the women in the videos, his hand moving faster, perspiration lining his forehead and the nape of his neck as he got closer.
She imagined more vividly.
Him, excited by the thought of savagely sucking on a woman’s heavy breasts, pulling the nipples with his teeth, gripping each breast in turn with his rough hands.
Him, lapping at a woman’s special lips, that woman’s fingers lubbed by the wetness of another woman’s pussy, and still another woman nibbling and nursing large tits.
Or maybe they were paying attention to her own breasts, to her pink pussy.
Maybe she was the center of all these people’s attention.
Her, listening to them suck.
Her, feeling their bites.
Her, savoring the agony.
Her, being banged by his big dick.
Or maybe he was pushing deep into her pussy; an over-sized black cock fucking her ass relentlessly, stretching her wide; a gritty man with a broad, hairy chest smacking his dick against her cheek.
Her, arching her neck to lick his balls as they dragged over her lips, against her nostrils, and coming to rest on her forehead. The manly scent, as an evidence trail to wanton sex.
Her, grasping and stroking two erect dicks and sucking a third. Her, pleasing men, leading them to their peak and then feeling cords of warm cum slide down her tits.
Her, feeling the sudden pressure of a woman’s shivering thighs clench around her head as she reaches climax.
Back in bed in her small bedroom, she tossed off the heavy comforter to allow her heated body to cool.
She thought many nights about going over to his apartment. Appearing unexpectedly. Wearing so little that her intent would be obvious.
“Finally,” he would say in response to her silent advance. “It’s taken so long for you to come here. I’ve done so much in full view of everyone just to get your attention.”
“And I’ve enjoyed each one,” she would reply.
“So have many other people, but I was waiting only for you.”
“I am here now,” she would answer.
Then he would reply simply by dragging her into his apartment, kissing her as though he would lose this woman if he let his lips release from hers.
She thought the scenario was a possibility, though doubtful. Extremely doubtful.
Still she dreamed and watched his window.
She longed for that bolt of electricity, the same as when he once held open for her the foyer door to the apartment building. She had smiled, brushed against him, completely unintentionally. He had a cool scent. His hair wet and unkempt. A gym bag slung over his shoulder.
There was another instance when he had willingly carried several of her grocery bags to the elevator. He smiled and nodded. She had mumbled a thank-you, though the day had been too horrible to respond as she would now.
Next time though, it would be her opportunity to reply with an erotic thank-you, insinuating that she would allow him to do anything to her. Absolutely anything.
Again, she calmed her breathing in her small bedroom, as she remembered she was alone, but she could not stop the pulsations inside of her, the warmth, the wetness. She couldn’t calm the thumping and throbbing, the hoping and agonizing.
Then passion arose up along with those titillations. She jumped out of bed with determination and headed out of her bedroom toward the apartment door. But her oversized Mickey Mouse T-shirt and pink Minnie Mouse slippers stopped her.
Damn Disney, she thought.
The light in his apartment was out, the place dark. But she had a little more time to sleep, to dream.
She fantasized about simply touching, lightly, his hardened dick. Her soft hand placed on its thick head. Cool fingers on an overheated cock, gripping its length, barely stroking. She wished for the pleasure it would offer her as much as it would bring him.
Her alarm clock bleeped. Her bedroom light flicked on. His, still off.
Maybe another night. Hopefully soon. And Mickey and Minnie would not stop her.Claire Woodruff. Click Here To Read This Article From It's Original Source